


You've Got Mail

by hayjolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayjolras/pseuds/hayjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Éponine, words on paper aren't enough; for Cosette, they're her only way to say what she needs to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got Mail

Unlatching the wrought iron gate and slipping into the garden, Éponine held firm to her letter, careful not to crumple it.

She walked past the rose gardens and flower beds, not bothering to use the light of her cell phone to show the way. She knew this path like the back of her hand — she could walk through it backwards while blindfolded if she had to.

It was Cosette’s idea from the start. Since they would bicker all the time in public — worse than Enjolras and Grantaire did (according to Courf, at least) — she’d suggested they write letters instead, talking about their day, sharing secrets, letting each other in on the happenings of their lives.

Cosette would sneak into Éponine’s apartment building and slink her letters in a lose floorboard in front of Éponine’ apartment (second floor, number six), while Éponine would hide hers in the space between Cosette’s window and the flower bed underneath it. Ingenious idea, really.

Éponine was writing in response to the night prior, where Cosette had picked a fight during one of Enjolras’s many social change meetings, or whatever that boy was always talking about. She had a bit of trouble trying to communicate something to Éponine she hadn’t been able to do, even in her letter, and Éponine had probed her about it during the meeting.

“Enjolras is talking, can we discuss this later?”

“No,” Éponine had said firmly, looking at the side of Cosette’s face, since she refused to turn and meet Éponine’s eye. “Because  _you’ll_  sneak out of here when it’s over. Don’t think I don’t know you by now, Cosette.”

“You’re so difficult!”

“ _I’m_  being difficult? You’re the one who won’t ‘fess up —”

This had escalated into a full fledged argument, where they’d yelled and pointed fingers and argued until they’d turned blue. Unsure of how to approach the situation, their friends sat in uncomfortable silence, their gazes going from Cosette to Éponine, as if they’d been watching a tennis game.

Éponine had finally stormed out of the meeting, leaving Cosette in tears.

She got home and sat at her desk, thinking of what to write in her letter. She was angry, and knew Cosette should be the one writing her, not the other way around, but Éponine wanted answers, and if there was no way into getting them in real life, she’d get them on paper.

So the next night — this night in particular, she crossed the garden, nimble as a cat, and walked over to Cosette’s window. It was closed, but light still shone from the cracks below the curtains, signaling that Cosette was still up, despite the later hour.

Éponine moved the flowerbox over a tad to slip her envelope in between the empty space. It usually wasn’t that hard to do — it was light enough — but tonight it felt different, heavier, even. It was as if their argument had weighed it down. Either that, or Éponine was losing her upper arm strength.

She went to put that note down in the crack, but felt something light graze her fingers, and she drew back her hand in confusion. Leaning over to get a good look at the crevice, she was able to make out an envelope, much like that one she held in her hands. Except this envelope was creme colored instead of white, with a sticker closing it, as opposed to a piece of tape.

This letter was from Cosette to Éponine.

Éponine gingerly picked up the letter, setting her own in between her lips as she opened Cosette’s envelope hurriedly, nearly tearing the letter itself, realizing what she was about to do as the envelope fell to the pathway ground, leaving the letter in between Éponine’s thin fingers.

She opened it, again, almost ripping it in half in anticipation, then held it under the window crack so the light would fall on the words.

There, in Cosette’s small, loopy writing, where the words, “I’m sorry.”

That was it.

That was all Cosette had to say.

Éponine spat out her own letter, allowing it to flutter gently to the ground, next to the discarded envelope and she rapped on Cosette’s window.

For a moment, Éponine did not think Cosette would come. She knew that Cosette knew that it was her, and not some stranger, and she thought that Cosette would shut off her lights and pretend to be asleep.

But the curtains drew back quickly and the window went up, and a hissing voice came from inside the house.

“What?” asked Cosette harshly. Her face was in clear view, and the light pooled out of the window, illuminating Éponine’s dark face.

“What the hell is  _this_?” Éponine asked, waving the letter in front of Cosette’s face.

“A letter,” Cosette replied, her voice stiff.

Éponine sighed loudly, rolling her eyes. “I’m not  _blind_ , Cosette. Why didn’t you put it in the floorboard? What, exactly, are you sorry for?”

“You know what I’m sorry for.”

Éponine glared. “Do I?”

Cosette didn’t say anything. Instead, she looked down at the flower box as if it had suddenly appeared underneath her window.

“I’m kind of — no, I’m  _really_  sick of the letters, Cosette,” Éponine said angrily. “I’m sick of you using them as an excuse to not look at me and tell me what you’re really thinking. You hide behind them, and even now you can’t say whatever it is you need to say. Even in the letters, you can’t tell me what you’re thinking.” Éponine took a deep breath, slowing herself down. “We need to start to learn how to do this face to face. Not hide from each other.”

Cosette was crying now, small tears falling from her face, and Éponine reached out and wiped them away with her thumb. “Talk to me,” she said soothingly, caressing Cosette’s cheek softly. “Just tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” Cosette whispered. “For the fight. And using the letters as a defense. And for always fighting with you, anyway. And I’m — I’m sorry for not…not —” Cosette took a shuddering breath as she ran a hand through her impossibly long blonde hair. She did it once, then twice, then once more, closing her eyes as she felt the touch of Éponine’s hand on her skin. “I’m sorry for not being able to tell you that…that I love you.”

There was a silence, and Éponine’s hand stopped moving, but did not fall from Cosette’s face. It stayed there, on Cosette’s cheek as Cosette grew pink from embarrassment, the flush warming Éponine’s hand. The girls watched each other, unable to blink, or speak, or say anything at all. They couldn’t even hear each other breathe — they only heard the crickets and the soft wind of the summer night. Éponine’s hand and Cosette’s cheek was the only physical contact they had, and it seemed to say everything.

Then Éponine opened her mouth, only to shut it again, then open it once more.

“But Cosette,” she said softly, feeling her anger drain from her body, “you just did.”

And she drew Cosette’s face to hers as they kissed softly, then deeply, stoping only to get their sense back together, holding hands through the window as Cosette spoke,

“You know we’re still going to argue.”

“Indubitably.”

“This won’t solve everything,” Cosette warned as Éponine’s hands tightened around hers.

“Of course not,” Éponine said, shaking her head. “But it’s a start.”

Cosette took a step back from her window, allowing Éponine to climb through and land softly in Cosette’s bedroom, shutting the window slowly behind her.

As Cosette led Éponine to her bed, she felt two warm, thin arms wrap around her waist, drawing her back closer to Éponine.

And Éponine whispered in her ear, “I love you, too.”


End file.
